


Too Late

by bloodsoakedleather



Series: Johnlock Porny Ficlets [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Broken Heart, Drunk Sex, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Male Slash, Missed Opportunity, Rough Sex, Stag Night Fic, angsty porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2014-01-09
Packaged: 2018-01-08 02:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1127492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsoakedleather/pseuds/bloodsoakedleather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Of course it was going to hurt, Sherlock had known that it would but this…  this was beyond painful. It was excruciating, white hot, searing agony and it was fucking beautiful."</p>
<p>Sherlock knows he's missed his chance with John so if this one night is all he has he's going to make sure he'll never be able to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> It had to be done, the stag night fic. Major angst with added porn.

Sherlock had never given even a moments thought to how he wanted his first time to go. If he had, it most certainly wouldn’t have been like this, bent over his favourite chair, trousers round his knees, face smushed into the cushions, fingers griping his bony hips so tightly they would undoubtedly leave behind bruises while he was fucked roughly from behind by a man so drunk he wouldn’t even remember what he’d done come morning.

And yet, that was what was happening right now and for Sherlock it couldn’t be more perfect because the man fucking him, the man taking the virginity he’d previously regarded with complete indifference was the soon to be married John Watson and Sherlock was utterly in love.

Drunk himself, all his higher brain functions thrown into disarray, he wasn’t quite sure what had led them to this point or who had made the first move. He just knew that this felt right to him, so incredibly right and he wouldn’t change it for anything in the world.

“Harder.” He rasped out between huge gulping breaths. “Fuck me harder.”

John obliged, just as he always did, always giving Sherlock everything he wanted, doing everything Sherlock told him to do without question because he… Sherlock didn’t actually know why John did anything at all for him but as he felt the grip on his hips loosen and John’s hands smoothing across his arse cheeks he just felt grateful.

John slapped each cheek hard, leaving a vivid rosy handprint against the pale, creamy skin and causing Sherlock to whimper and moan. Before the sting could fade, John grabbed large handfuls of the tender flesh and squeezed firmly, spreading Sherlock’s arse cheeks and opening him up even more. He pulled back until just the head of his cock rested inside Sherlock’s hole and then he snapped his hips forward and plunged back into Sherlock’s sore and aching but oh so willing body with enough force to shift the chair forward several inches.

“Yes.” Sherlock cried out, wrapping his arms around the back of the chair and clinging to it for dear life. “Yesyesyesyes, just like that, don’t stop.”

John didn’t stop. He kept up his brutal pace, pounding into the man beneath him over and over, tearing and bruising inside and out.

It hurt. It hurt so much more than Sherlock ever could have imagined. A virgin arse, little to no preparation and only spit for lube, of course it was going to hurt, Sherlock had known that it would but this… this was beyond painful. It was excruciating, white hot, searing agony and it was fucking beautiful, everything Sherlock had wanted, everything he had begged for in spite of John’ many doctory protests. He had wanted it to hurt, he wanted it to go on hurting, he wanted it to never stop hurting because he knew this was the one and only time he would ever have John this way and he wanted to keep the memory with him always, to not be able to lock it away in his mind palace when the pain stopped being physical and it was just his heart that still ached.

“Jesus Sherlock.” John muttered behind him, his voice rough with passion and breathless from exertion. The sound of his name falling from John’s lips in such intimate circumstances was like the most exquisite music, just one more facet of the memory he wanted so desperately to hang on to.

“John.” He muttered back.

“Sherlock.”

“Please.”

Ever mindful, even in the midst of an ill-advised, drunken, pre-wedding shag with his best man, John reached around and took Sherlock in hand, wrapping his fingers around his aching prick and slowly stroking. Sherlock let out a strangled moan and pushed forward, thrusting his cock into John’s fist then thrusting his arse back onto his cock. The duel sensations of pain and pleasure were more than his John-addled brain knew how to handle.

“JohnJohnJohnJohn.” He sobbed over and over, orgasm beginning to coil in his belly, drawing his balls up tight to his body. One more powerful thrust and one more sharp tug on his prick and Sherlock finally succumbed. He came hard and fast, coating John’s hand with his release, thick white ropes of semen splattering against the edge of the chair and dripping onto the floor beneath. His whole body trembled violently, uncontrollably . Unable to hold himself up any longer he collapsed, panting, into the chair, John’s name still a whispered mantra on his lips.

John fell forward, pressing his chest against Sherlock’s back, kissing, suckling, nipping at the flushed, sweat slicked skin of his shoulder.

“So good.” He mumbled. “Taste so good. Feel so fucking good.” His hips, which had stilled when Sherlock came, now began to move again, picking up pace rapidly until he was pounding Sherlock’s over sensitised body just as hard as before. Maybe harder. “I’m gonna cum Sherlock.”

“Yes. Oh God yes.”

It didn’t take long after that and when John did cum, deep inside him, Sherlock felt every twitch, every pulse, every spurt. John collapsed on top of him, crushing him, stealing his breath but Sherlock didn’t care. He would happily remain here for the rest of his life, pinned by John’s weight and impaled on his cock.

“You’re amazing.” John said softly, pressing a tender kiss to the back of his neck. “Have I ever told you that?”

“Once or twice.” It took every ounce of willpower Sherlock possessed to speak those three words and not the three words he really wanted to say.

John chuckled, unaware of the inner turmoil Sherlock was currently feeling. Slowly, carefully he pulled out, gathered up his crumpled trousers and stood up. Sherlock protested the loss with a small unhappy sound and bit his lip to keep from begging him to stay there for just a little longer.

“I’m going to the loo.” John said. “I need to clean up.”

Sherlock nodded silently and watched as John stumbled drunkenly towards the bathroom. When he was out of sight, he struggled to his feet and gingerly pulled up his own trousers, clenching tightly so John’s release would not leak out and wincing when the seam rubbed against his sore and aching hole. He smoothed out the creases as best he could with his hand, scrubbed at the cum stain on the carpet with his shoe until he couldn’t see it any more then used the back of the cushion to do the same to the one on the chair.

When he was done he sat down, ignoring all the aches and pains that shot through his body and steepled his hands beneath his chin. When John came back he would find him nothing less than a model of composure, as if what had just happened between them had meant nothing, as if it hadn’t rocked him to his very core and torn his heart to shreds at the same time.

It could have been so different he thought ruefully while he waited for John to return. If only he hadn’t been so stupidly stubborn, so determinedly blind. They could have had the rest of their lives together and not just this one night but he’d scoffed at sentiment and resolutely ignored that which now seemed so obvious. John had loved him once. John had been his, all he’d had to do was reach out and take what was being offered, what he realised now he’d wanted from the start but had been to scared to admit. Instead he’d denied his feelings and dismissed John’s. He’d lied to him. He’d betrayed him in the worst way, broken his heart then left him alone to pick up the pieces.

Now John was no longer his. He belonged to someone else. Mary had been there for him when Sherlock hadn’t been. She’d brought joy back to his life and given him a reason to get out of bed in the mornings, she made him happy and although it hurt desperately to see them together, Sherlock would always be grateful to her for that.

Still, in his darker moments when he was alone in the flat and the ache in his chest threatened to consume him, he couldn’t help but think back on all the missed opportunities. John had loved him once, and he had loved John back. They could have had something together, something truly amazing. Now, it was too late.


End file.
